Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  I resent having to give time to some of the necessary body functions; there are other things I would rather be doing. Reading a travel book for example. However, I do have a complaint to record. In all the travel books I have read, and I have read a lot, as these are among my favourite leisure reading, I can recall just one travel writer mentioning his distress with the available toilet stop. Perhaps it is because the majority of travel books are written by men, who, generally speaking, are not so inconvenienced as women. Jason Elliot is the exception. He adroitly describes his anxious experience on a high mountain pass in Afghanistan in the middle of winter when the necessary facilities were outside the small dwelling. Any frozen snow-clad piece of ground on that exposed mountain pass beneath the star lit sky had to do.

  Arriving at Castrojeriz we walk up a wider than expected road lined by two storied houses. These houses are built of earth coloured stone on the street level, with the upper storeys of less symmetrical stone, or plastered and painted bright mustard yellow, red, or occasionally white. Some are obviously being repaired and renovated and I trust our presence in this picturesque town will support further revitalisation. As we walk the cobbled main street, uphill of course, a man greets us from his doorway and we gather that he and his wife have just opened their home as an albergue. (My Spanish is sufficient for me to understand the gist of his explanation.) It is so recently opened it is not listed in the guidebook. The guidebook had described a very cute sounding albergue and I was hoping to find that. However, he is such a friendly man, we decide to have a look inside. It is delightful. There is a reception desk immediately to our right as we enter and then there is the door to a new bunkroom. It looks and smells clean. The host then shows us the dining room. We gather we cannot prepare our own food. He and his wife will cook and he names the cost. Our budget will cope.

  We are shown the immaculate bathrooms, one for each gender. Then our host leads us outside, shows us the stone basin in which to wash our clothes and the clothes line on which to dry them. He then leads us up some stone steps and shows us where the spa pool will go. “It is not yet functional,” or something to that effect – said with a shrug of his shoulders. There is everything here we could want apart from the ability to cook our own evening meal. We are staying.

  Bruce and I unpack and then keep a look out for Wanda, Wendy and Dafydd who should be arriving soon. At last I can repay them and ask about the Peter episode. They arrive in town and we entice them inside. The host is overjoyed with our entrapment abilities. The three Canadians unpack and I am vastly relieved to be able to pay them the fifty euros we had borrowed. I am promptly told that they had not expected me to repay them. They had given us the money as a gift. It is the way of the Camino. I appreciate their generosity, but cannot accept their gift for Bruce and I can repay them. Dafydd complains about having to share a room with Bruce yet again and the sounds Bruce emits on and off throughout the night. As if Dafydd can take such high ground. He, too, enlivens our nights with sleep disturbing noise.

  We are joined by a young pilgrim who has been lured off the street by our amiable host. I greet her and then leave the albergue. There is time before dinner to go and see if any shops are open. While Bruce sleeps, I look for the chemist to re-stock our supply of pain killers. When Bruce wakes, we go in a different direction to look for a shoe shop. He needs a change of footwear to relieve the pressure on his blister.

  We find a fairly dim, long and very narrow shop. It is crammed with shoes, boots and other associated paraphernalia, all of which are exceedingly dusty. The shop owner also looks dusty as he sleeps in a chair behind the counter. He must be in his eighties. He wakes when a youth arrives and addresses him. When the owner serves the young man, we see the elderly man is small and slight, with a massive twinkle in his eyes. Bruce and I stand still, rather bemused, wondering if this shop can produce good quality walking sandals. This very spry elderly man knows where to look in his crowded, dusty shop and produces the best-looking sandals-made-for-walking we could have hoped for - I realise, afresh, that surface appearances are often not reality.

  Bruce is as thrilled as he ever admits to being. He also buys some socks which he intends to wear with the sandals. I hate it when people wear socks with their sandals. We pay the high price and leave the shop. With Bruce’s worrying blister, the word ‘budget’ must be put out of my mind.

  On our way back to the albergue, we spot Dafydd and some other pilgrims seated on a terrace, outside a bar, overlooking the lower town. We join them for wine and tapas. An evangelical pastor from the USA is in the group for he had walked with Dafydd that day. He too needs some sandals, but shakes his head at the price. “We too think we paid a lot of money, but if the sandals cannot relieve the blister problems for Bruce, we may not be able to complete the Camino.”

  That evening the husband and wife team cook dinner for the six pilgrims sitting patiently in the dining room. Hunger requires us to wait without complaint. We need this food and the smell is enough to ensure we do not wander off. It is another meal of much appreciated home cooking. The first course is a Castilian soup, followed by a tortilla, then the dinner is crowned by chocolate blancmange (always a favourite of mine). There is also a satisfying chilled red mulled wine. I drink too much. There is no table water and it never occurs to me to ask for some. I just keep drinking the wine which never runs out.

  Above our heads is a mammoth log which we learn is used in the grape pressing process. At the end of the table is a stone vat into which grapes used to be unloaded to be pressed by the contraption above our heads. The host treats us all to an account of how wine is made. He knows none of us speak Spanish, but he has a captive audience and a story to tell. We need to be initiated into the mystery and marvel of wine production. It is very, very funny. I decide it is a live Spanish version of Fawlty Towers. He uses extended arm gestures. At times his whole body is bouncing up and down and his face glows in excitement as he relives harvest times. Bruce and Dafydd are press-ganged into demonstrating how to turn the screw. Then it is Wendy’s and my turn. We cannot budge it. It is a great performance and full credit to our hospitable, amiable host for doing his best to enlighten us about the production of wine whether in Spain or elsewhere.

  Our host disappears briefly and returns with the results, in a bottle, of a previous second pressing and urges us to try, “Just a little, for the Camino.” How can we refuse? The six of us consent to try the contents of the verde bottle. It is lethal. I cannot hazard a guess at the alcohol content. Having a little for the Camino, after the mulled wine, is not potentially a good mix. I belatedly remember I will be walking the Camino in the morning. I am concerned about my potential walking abilities.

  At the end of the meal, when our host has left to join his wife and eat his dinner, Dafydd and Wendy tell us they own a small vineyard back home and proceed to translate the lecture for us. Dafydd tells us that a bag of herbs would have been used to flavour the clear second pressing, hence the crème de menthe flavour and the verde colour.

  The other pilgrims leave and I sit at the dining table typing, trying to record some of the day’s happenings. Our hostess arrives and begins laying the table for the pilgrims’ breakfast. The lights are on a timer and go off. She continues to lay the table in the dark and I continue to type up my notes.

  We sleep well and are woken in the morning by piped classical music which is our breakfast summons. Our host peers around the door to see how we are all doing. After breakfast, we are soon on the move. As we begin to walk up the road, our host calls after us. He has a camera in his hand. “Facebook, Facebook,” he cries. It turns out he wants a photo of Bruce for his Facebook site. It is that Gandalf effect again.

  Castrojeriz to Frómista

  25.2 kms (15.7 ml)

  460.0 kms (285.8ml) to Santiago

  When you travel you find yourself

  alone in a different way,

  more attentive to now

>   to the self you bring along.

  John O’Donohue (1956 – 2008)

  April 8, Day 18

  WE WALK ON A STRAIGHT road with barely perceptible undulations. The road tracks between crops of mustard, oats and barley. The early morning mist still hovers. In the distance, we see a cliff of chalk. We reach the chalk and begin a strenuous climb to the summit. We have a midway stop at a provided rest area, but choose not to buy any refreshments set out by an entrepreneur. Bruce and I are both self-congratulatory on how well we climb. At the summit, we see Wendy and Dafydd (Wanda has bused ahead) who have stopped at the Alto de Mostelares, the welcome rest area. The view back and forwards is spectacular. Dafydd says as we join them at the rest area, “You got up that hill in pretty good time.” It is gratifying to have had an audience to the sweat of that ascent. We walk on. Bruce and Dafydd now as a walking pair, with Wendy and myself ahead. The walk begins to descend and we reach the flat plain viewed from the summit. I enjoy Wendy’s conversation and company.

  Occasionally there is a bank of the chalky earth beside the road. Once again, I am in awe of the beauty of this Meseta. The predominant sounds are those of the wind blowing across the land and of birds celebrating the long-awaited spring. Gone is the background noise of traffic. There is the noise of an occasional tractor in the distance, but even that disappears when lunch and siesta call. I had imagined the Meseta to be a version of the Tongariro National Park. This park is New Zealand’s only desert with its low fertility and scrubby vegetation. The Meseta is vastly different. It is a high plateau, flanked by mountains, with fertile valleys and less fertile tablelands. We learn that it is in the fertile valleys that oats, barley and mustard are grown and on the chalky, less fertile upper tableland, wheat is sown.

  In the afternoon, Bruce and I are again walking on our own. The stillness and solitude we are experiencing is not perfect. Bruce’s blister is bigger, despite the change to sandals and socks. It is worrying him as he walks. My right heel is now almost entirely hidden behind a solitary blister. Perhaps it needs popping. I don’t know. I think that blisters are best left to their own devices, but I now consider popping this one. So, gross! Tomorrow I will wear two pairs of socks on that foot. I am still walking in my shoes. Bruce, shod in his new socks and sandals, now has four boots hanging off the back of his pack. Another kilogram for him to carry, but he says he doesn’t notice the extra weight. The Meseta, in these dry conditions, can be walked in the lighter shoes and sandals, giving our feet a much-needed break from our heavier tramping boots.

  As we walk, we are conscious of God’s grace surrounding us as we continue despite the blister induced pain. I decide to experiment with lengthening my stride and find the rhythm of walking, which up until now, has eluded me. The path is easy walking, but we have clouds of little black flies bothering us. We could be in Australia. What will the part-time Aussies think of these flies? When we reach a point on the path where there is a pool of water, the flies leave us. They no longer need the moisture our bodies are producing.

  The terrain changes again and becomes rockier. There are buds on the occasional stunted shrubs. The flowers remind me of New Zealand manuka flowers. Wild thyme pushes its way up between rocks lining the path. The rocks are sometimes shoulder height and keep us a little sheltered from the wind. Thankfully, the wind is no longer bitterly cold and is warm enough to coax us forward on our journey. There are kind gradual climbs of one hundred metres and we barely notice them. We talk about why some people avoid walking the Meseta and choose to bus this part. Perhaps they are not able to walk in the silence of these high places, where little human contact is available to distract from one’s inner thoughts and self.

  Frómista is ahead - another small town reputed to have a golden Romanesque church. It is one of the best on the Camino, but it is locked. Many of the churches in the small towns are locked against vandalism. This situation saddens me. We seek out an albergue and book into a private room in the hope of deep sleep. As is my pattern, I shower, wash clothes, and then go out on the street to look at this small town.

  Frómista to Villalcázar de Sirga

  15 kms (9.3ml)

  434.8 kms (270.2ml) to Santiago

  There are two ways to live your life.

  One is as though nothing is a miracle.

  The other is as though everything is a miracle.

  Albert Einstein (1879-1955)

  April 9, Day 19

  BRUCE AND I WAKE A little late today, but are less worried than we would have been a week ago. We can pack quickly. We now know what needs to go into the packs first and what must remain easily accessible. My iPad, for example, goes into the big front pocket on Bruce’s pack. He stands patiently as I haul the iPad out, take a photo, then put it away again, moving the pack around on his back.

  Breakfast time finds us outside in the albergue courtyard where the sun attempts to warm us, though obscured by light grey cloud. The morning is crisp and cool, but not unpleasant. In one corner of the courtyard is a medium sized tree. The tables and chairs, at which we are contentedly seated, are of that plastic variety so ubiquitous these days. Our breakfast consists of the fresh strawberries, bananas and yoghurt I had purchased the night before. We have to skin the bananas as they are not yet ripe enough to peel. The fruit becomes fruit salad in our little bowls. Pigeons, a rooster and other pilgrims are also eating. The scratching and cooing mingles with the faint sounds of traffic and the distant passing of a train. The three churches, whose bells are on automatic timers, all chime letting us know it is 8 o’clock.

  We sit facing the boot cupboard. This albergue, like all others, requires boots to be removed before we enter the building, in an attempt to keep the facilities bed bug free. To our left is the area where I washed our clothes. The drying racks are to the right. As we move westward, the facilities seem to be improving. I am also finding the food tastier. There is a greater variety for offer on the Menu del Peregrino.

  The host walks past carrying a bread stick. I am envious of his bread. The bread shop was closed last evening and that means we have no bread for our lunch. We have our usual enhancements for our bread, should we later be able to buy some, plus our snacks. I silently pray that we find a bread shop open on the way, for I am not going back down the hill in the opposite direction to buy a stick of bread.

  Food and the literal notion of ‘daily bread’ has become very significant as I must search for this bread each day and I, who rarely eat bread at home, have begun to appreciate it. Bread is abundant (when we find open shops) and the long Spanish rolls are very portable. Many a time we see a pilgrim with a stick of bread protruding from the backpack. It is so easy to prepare a meal using bread when resources are limited to what can be carried in one’s backpack combined with whatever facilities the albergue may or may not have.

  Our host begins to whistle – an agreeable sound. I enjoy hearing people whistle as they go about their ordinary tasks. Whistling suggests a relaxed enjoyment of the current activity, and indeed, of life. I lack the skill myself. Despite numerous attempts, I cannot learn to whistle.

  Two women from Denmark are catching the bus to León today as they have only two weeks left before they need to be back at work. Like so many other pilgrims, they must pick and choose which sections of the Camino they will walk and which parts they will bus because of time constraints. Each time Bruce and I hear their anguish in trying to decide which parts to leave, we renew our gratitude for the gift of time and leisure.

  However, to be able to continue, we need our blisters to heal. We both have large blisters on our right heels and our heels are exceedingly tender. Bruce is finding walking in his newly purchased socks and sandals hard going. I now have my right ankle strapped as well as the injured left ankle. My right ankle has been sprained several times in the past and is now feeling the pressure of the almost daily long-distance walks.

  The path takes us through slightly r
olling fields planted with mustard and grass. Another large rectangular haystack is on our right. We have never seen hay stacked like this before. Each rectangle is large, often ten bales high and up to 30 bales long. With so little rain, there is no need to cover this hay mountain. The height and width is enough to protect the quality of most of the hay.

  We turn off the farm road and now have a stream to our right. The willows are barely in leaf and I moan about the absence of the leafy shade the guidebook promised. We start to strain our eyes in the hope of seeing the next village. I really need a break to get my shoes off. A coffee and a bread stick for our upcoming lunch, would also be welcome. We cross the Río Ucieza and soon stumble into the small village of Villovieco. The guidebook has promised a coffee stop. We have a cursory glance around and cannot see a bar among the sprinkling of adobe buildings. Resignedly, we seat ourselves upon a hay bale or two and lean back against the barn wall. It is shady and peaceful, but I do not have a sense of rest. We eat our snacks, then wearily decide to continue.

  We walk around the corner of the large barn and there is a bar. It is a beauty and not just because of the hoped-for restroom stop and coffee. The bar is one storied and the colour of mid yellow ochre – I just love that colour - with rough sawn beams jutting out from under the orange tiled roof creating a small covered porch. There is a largish dog and two donkeys on the loose, much to the consternation of five young female pilgrims. Four farmers are seated under the shaded porch area with two red, plastic, petrol containers sitting on their coffee table. One of the farmers has his weed eater propped against the coffee table beside him. Next to them an old wooden cable wheel has been up-cycled into an outside bar table. Scattered about the lawn are green plastic chairs and tables. There is also a small structure attached to the house with a little yellow arrow pointing inside with the word ‘aseos’ underneath the arrow. For those pilgrims with no Spanish at all, there is also a little yellow female person (a stick figure with a dress shape) painted on the wall. Further on is a repeat of the yellow for males. Grace paired with civilization.